


Split

by butwordsarewind (sungabraverday)



Series: Cities Headcanons [18]
Category: Paris Burning (thecitysmith)
Genre: Croatia, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 01:26:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7664938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sungabraverday/pseuds/butwordsarewind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three deaths and a birth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Split

**Author's Note:**

> This has been fully formed in my head for over a year since I visited Split, but never actually written until now.

They said she was too old for childbirth, but she didn't care. Her son had died at sea, and all she could do for her grieving husband was give him a new son. And as she screamed, blood and sweat soaking the sheets, she gave birth to a baby girl. The Illyrian woman was the first.

The second was a Roman citizen who strolled the walls of his palace, admiring the sea. It was breath-taking and it was his, son of Jupiter, son of Dalmatia, the only Emperor to ever retire, and he could spend it in this place. But he was old, and it surprised no one when they found him in his bed, never to wake.

The last was a young man on the walls his forefathers had once served in. And with trembling fingers, he pulled back the drawstring of his bow as the Slavs drew close. But it wasn't enough to simply want to defend his amily, only safe while the walls remained unbreached. He wore no armour - had none to wear - and it took not ten minutes of fighting before he was down, killed by the enemies before he'd taken any life.

In the night there was a storm, fending off the Croat attackers with harsh winds, pounding rain, and waves that crashed against the gates of the old palace. In the morning, a child with a profile that had adorned coins across the Mediterranean, the dark curly hair of an Illyrian mother, the slender frame of a Salonian refugee, and the bright eyes of a not-yet-City sat in the peristyle, watching as the sun rose.

By nightfall, he had found the leaders of the refugees and put forward his plan to become a City and end the fighting.


End file.
